The day was warm, one of those lazy afternoons where the sunlight fell in soft patches through your bedroom blinds. Kevin sat cross-legged on the floor, his guitar resting against his knee, absently plucking at the strings while you sat on the bed, pretending to scroll through your phone. You’d both been quiet for a while, the kind of quiet that didn’t feel awkward—at least, not for him.

For you, though, there was a low hum of unease in your chest.

Kevin knew about your scars—well, he knew they existed. You’d told him in a half-mumbled confession weeks ago, voice so small you weren’t sure he even caught all the words. He never pushed, never asked to see, never made it about him. But lately, you’d been thinking… maybe you wanted him to see. Not to shock him or to prove anything, but because you were tired of hiding.

Your hands fidgeted with the hem of your sweatshirt. You could feel his eyes flick toward you when you’d go still for too long.

“Kev?” Your voice was barely above a whisper.

He set the guitar down immediately. “Yeah?”

You hesitated, your throat tightening. “Can I… show you something? I mean—you already know, but…”

He didn’t rush you. Just nodded slowly. “Only if you want to.”

Your heart thudded as you tugged your sleeve up, exposing the pale lines, some faded, some not so faded. Your skin felt colder without the fabric. You kept your gaze fixed on the floor.

Kevin’s breathing was steady. No sharp inhale, no flinch, no awkward pity. He scooted closer until he was sitting right beside you on the bed. His hand hovered for a second before resting gently over your forearm—not covering the scars, just holding you.

“Thank you for trusting me,” he said quietly. His voice was warm in that way he sometimes was when he was talking about music he loved—honest, unfiltered. “I’m… not gonna say I’m sorry, ‘cause I know you’ve heard that too many times. But I am glad you’re here. With me.”

Something in your chest cracked open a little.

“I was scared you’d think I was… broken,” you admitted.

Kevin gave a short laugh—soft, almost sad. “Newsflash: we’re all broken. You’ve heard my drum solos. That’s not coming from a well-adjusted guy.”

That made you smile, even if it was small.

He shifted so his head rested against your shoulder, and for a while you both just sat there, the silence no longer buzzing with unease but with something else—something steady. His thumb traced slow, absent circles against your skin, not avoiding the scars, not fixating on them either.

“Next time it feels bad,” he murmured, “you don’t have to be alone with it. I’m not gonna pretend I can fix everything, but I can sit with you. I can listen.”

And for the first time in a long time, you believed someone when they said that.